


The Long Game

by msgenevieve



Series: Bow my Head (keep my heart slow) [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kissing, Neverland (Once Upon a Time), Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, salty language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m in this for the long haul,” he tells Baelfire, and he means it.  There are days – like today – when he feels like he has been waiting for Emma Swan for a very, very long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Game

**Author's Note:**

> I can no longer fight the urge to write for this pairing. I have no doubt taken some liberties with the timeline referencing Season Two's "The Doctor" but dang, these things are very hard to pin down when it comes to this show. All concrit warmly welcomed! Spoilers for "The Doctor", "Good Form" and "The New Neverland".

 

~*~

 

 

“I’m in this for the long haul,” he tells Baelfire, and he means it. There are days – like today – that he feels like he has been waiting for Emma Swan for a very, very long time.

 

~*~

 

 

When he first hears her name, it’s from Cora’s lips. “Emma Swan,” she tells him with a twist of red lips, “the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. The Saviour who broke my daughter’s curse.” He hadn’t been in camp while she’d worn Lancelot’s face and entertained their Storybrooke guests, but Cora is all too happy to share the details, obviously relishing the information gleaned while masquerading as one of the realm’s most revered knights. “She and her mother were searching for a portal to take them back to their land.” Her smile widens, and something cold flutters down his spine. “Quite the useful little Saviour, it would seem.”

“How so?” He does his best to inject the question with the required enthusiasm, but the details of who and what and why matter little to him. All he knows is that twenty-eight years have passed without him taking a single breath, and now it is finally time for him to run the Crocodile to ground. They’ve been biding their time in this bloody peasant camp for far too long, and he has grown very weary of playing the part of a downtrodden blacksmith.

Cora looks at him, amused. “My dear Captain, haven’t you been paying attention?” She wraps her hand around the wooden handle of her parasol, every movement as deliberate and precise as that of a praying mantis. “All we have to do is wait, and the Saviour will be the one to lead me to my daughter.”

“And me to the Crocodile,” he reminds her flatly, and the hand on the parasol twitches.

“But of course,” she murmurs, tilting her head as though listening to a faraway music only she can hear. “That is, assuming you’re able to carry out the next part of the plan.”

“And what would that be, exactly?”

“Why, to use that pretty face and clever tongue of yours to convince them to trust you, of course.”

He grins, relieved to be back on familiar ground. “Well, I hate to brag, but I’ve been known to be rather charming when the occasion calls for it.”

She smiles at him again, and again he feels a cold finger of unease trace his spine. “Oh, it calls for it.”

Twelve hours later, after slender but strong hands pull him from his hiding place beneath the stinking corpses, he finds himself blinking up at both the bright sunlight and Emma Swan’s face, and he’s not sure which burns his eyes more.

Not a scant hour afterwards, the Swan girl’s arm is tight around his neck, the feel of her pressed against his back filtering into his senses even as her blade grazes his throat, her earlier claim to an affinity with the truth obviously not an idle boast. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t so furious, but with his hook tucked safely into his satchel, there’s nothing to be done as the four lovelies bind him tightly to the closest tree (something that would be extremely pleasant under different circumstances) and he’s once again faced with the point of a dagger. His eyes are drawn to Emma Swan’s furious gaze again and again despite his best efforts, and he struggles to find his footing, stumbling between outrage and admiration. _Frozen for twenty-eight years, bested in a bloody heartbeat_ , he thinks darkly, and it suddenly dawns on him that perhaps Cora is no longer his best chance at finding his Crocodile.

A very useful Saviour, indeed. He takes a deep breath, letting the unfamiliar scent of Emma Swan’s clothing and hair fill his lungs, then prepares to fall back on the ancient exit strategy of a desperate man.

The truth.

 

~*~

 

 

Ten hours. Ten fucking hours he spends shackled at the top of that fucking beanstalk.

When his wrist is raw from straining against the manacles, he slumps to the cold ground, his anger hot enough to keep him from noticing the chill. “I can’t take the chance that I’m wrong about you,” he mutters furiously in a feminine sing-song voice, finding some small measure of comfort in mimicry. Bloody _buggering_ wench. How dare she? How could she have done this to him, after everything he’d done to help her and her company? When he catches up with her, he is going to take great pleasure in –

In what, exactly. Killing her holds little appeal, he admits, although tying her to a tree and tormenting her has its charm. Perhaps he could borrow her little dagger, scrap it along that lovely jaw, just hard enough to leave a mark. Perhaps he could show her how his hook is useful for so many more things than just climbing a bean stalk, trail the cold metal down the long, delicate length of her neck, slide it down over the curve of her breast until she gasps –

No.

_No._

She’d wronged him. Betrayed him. He wishes to do her harm, not - _that_. When he catches up with the pretty little Saviour - and he _will_ catch up with her - it’s not going to be about that.

Ten hours is a very long time.

The giant doesn’t help matters. After blissfully ignoring his restrained guest for several hours, he takes it upon himself to sit in the nearest corner and make conversation, something Hook could have happily lived several lifetimes without. “Just so you know, Emma made me promise not to hurt you.”

“How kind of her.”

Sarcasm doesn’t seem to be popular in the giant’s world. “Yeah. She said she needed a head start, that she needed to get back to her son and she was worried that something might go wrong.”

Hook stares at the lock of the shackles, as if some weak spot might have escaped his notice during the last five hours of staring at the bloody thing. “Fascinating.”

A frown creases the giant’s forehead, one huge hand worrying at the pendant around his neck. “I don’t understand, though. If you were working with her and helping her, why would she do that?”

“Why indeed?” Hook mutters, maintaining a fast grip on his rage, pushing aside the unbidden memory of Emma Swan’s face when he’d told her that ‘an orphan‘s an orphan’, the shock that had flickered at the back of her bright eyes. With an effort, he dismisses the unfamiliar pang the memory invokes. Whatever she’d suffered in the past, it didn’t justify the fact that he is now at the mercy of a socially awkward giant and no closer to snuffing out the Crocodile’s life than he was when he was at the bottom of this wretched beanstalk. “Tell me, giant –“

“Anton.”

 _Oh, stars above, save me._ “Tell me, Anton. What else did the lovely Emma say?”

“Not much else.” Two tremendous shoulders lift in a shrug. “We talked about my bean keepsake, but that was all.”

 _Bean? Keepsake?_ His fury fades slightly, watered down by hope and the promise of a bargain to be made. “Anton, my good fellow.” Dusting himself off, Hook gets to his feet and gives his host the most charming smile he can muster, given the circumstances. “I should love to see such a treasure with my own eyes.”

The giant gives him a guileless smile, obviously pleased, and Hook supposes he should be grateful to the Saviour for softening the monster’s stance on humankind. Then again, he thinks as he feels the shackles cutting into his skin once more, perhaps not.

 

~*~

 

 

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Three hundred years and he’s kissed many a wench since Milah, and yet he can no longer remember any of those kisses, because Emma Swan is kissing him as though he is her entire world and he can barely breathe, barely stand, barely remember his own name.

Heat skitters down his spine, like the ghostly fire that teases a ship’s mast whilst crossing the deepest of oceans, a low groan rattling in his throat as her tongue slides against his, teasing and taunting and taking. His right hand buries itself in her hair, as much to hold her mouth to his as it is to stop himself from sliding it down her back and gripping her hip and pulling her into him, making her feel him hard and wanting against her. The dark sweetness of her mouth is better than the finest rum he’s ever stolen, the soft crush of her breasts against his chest making him want to shove her to the moss-covered jungle ground and simply _take_ her, hard and fast and well, her parents and the evil queen be fucking damned.

Then it’s over, but she doesn’t step back. Her breath is hot on his lips, still breathing in his ragged gasps, her body swaying against his as though she’s also having trouble remembering how to stand.

Her kiss has left its mark on his lips and tongue, leaving him barely able to form the words he finally manages to utter. “That was-”

Her lips almost brush his again, and he feels the tremor that shivers through her. “- a one-time thing.”

A one-time thing. As though it was nothing more than a pleasurable morsel shared between them, forgotten as soon as it was done. She turns on her heel and flees - there’s no other word for it - and if he hadn’t seen the unsteady path her boots take as she walks away from him, he might be more inclined to believe her.

Three hundred years, and a week in Neverland has proven to be his undoing.

 

~*~

 

 

Three hundred years.

Twenty-eight years.

Ten hours.

A week in Neverland.

A day spent watching her with her family, the family that does not include him, despite the camaraderie that blossomed reluctantly in the depths of Pan’s jungle.

If he wasn’t a patient man, he might wonder just how much longer he should be expected to wait.

Then again, he’s nothing if not a patient man.

 

~*~

 

 

Emma’s knock on his door at Granny’s is cursory at best, the heels of her boots clicking on the hard floor of his room before he’s even bade her enter. “We need to talk.”

“Do come in, love.” His head is pounding, his body sluggish from last night’s onslaught of rum after an unfamiliar period of abstinence. He’s not about to turn her away, though. Leaning back against the window frame, he prepares to toss back a carelessly teasing reply, but finds the words dying on his tongue at the sight of her face. Her eyes are gleaming with anger, her mouth a tight line of displeasure. Displeasure directed at him. _Oh, joy._ “Haven’t we already had this conversation? Something about my brother and your father and the Crocodile doing you a favour?”

She ignores the jibe. “So, Hook, tell me something.” Coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, she digs her hands into the back pockets of her trousers as though trying to keep them still. “Where _you_ come from, is sleeping with other women thought of as customary behaviour when trying to win someone’s heart?”

He stares at her. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this. To have such a direct shot fired across his bow, so to speak. It’s not her way, not when it comes to him. There’s no mistaking the hurt threaded through the words, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to a heady thrill of satisfaction at her poorly-concealed jealousy. She stops her pacing, her gaze as sharp as broken glass. “Well?”

“Emma, I-“

She cuts him off, wrenching her hands free as she speaks, her long fingers painting her anger in the cool air between them. “Because in _this_ world, that sort of thing just makes you kind of a dick.”

“Emma.” Closing the distance between them with two long strides, he catches her right hand in his, pulling it hard against his chest, tugging her close enough to smell her hair, her skin. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “I am _not_ having a dalliance with the fairy.”

Their eyes lock, and he feels the familiar magnetic tug between them, as reliable as his ship’s compass. After what feels like an eternity, she closes her eyes, a wry smile curving her mouth. “And to think, that won’t be the strangest thing anyone says to me today.” Opening her eyes, she slowly twists her hand in his grip, splaying her fingers across his chest. If she means to push him away, it doesn’t happen, just five pinpoints of heat, covering his heart, her fingernails scratching his skin just enough to raise gooseflesh.

“Now I have a question for _you_ , Sheriff Swan.” He covers her hand with his, pressing it harder against his heart, wondering if she can feel it pounding beneath her touch. “Would you care if I were?”

Her eyes widen, and he sees the urge to flee flicker across her face. Her gaze roams his face, dropping to his lips, then lifting to meet his eyes, and he thinks he might just be drowning on dry land. “Yes.” Her reluctant whisper slides over his skin, making him think of darkened rooms and throaty sighs and the remembered taste of her mouth. “I would.”

Just two words, but the hope they hold makes his chest tighten. He swallows hard, suddenly very much aware of the fact that they are finally alone after days and days of being surrounded by far too many people. He bows his head to hers, ghosting his lips against the curve of her ear. He can almost taste the heat of her faint blush, smell the sweet musk of her skin. “Emma-”

He feels her shiver, her hand shifting against his chest as she turns her head, the warmth of her breath trembling against his throat. “I - we can’t do this. Not now.”

He begs to differ - he’s actually fairly certain they could do _quite_ a few things right now – but he understands, finally, the words she’s not saying. That _not now_ doesn’t mean _not ever_. “I know.”

He doesn’t move, because the next step needs to come from her. She sways slightly on her feet, towards him, then away, like the swing of a pendulum, putting a foot of space between them. It’s a gentle withdrawal, a faint echo of their embrace in Neverland, but it still carries the same sting. “There’s too much happening, and I just can’t-”

“I know,” he says again as he pulls her hand from his chest. He lifts it to his lips, turning it so his mouth finds her palm. Her soft gasp is music to his ears as he kisses the faint scar marking the wound he once tended, tasting the tremor that goes through her at the feel of his lips against her skin. She tastes of salt and lemon soap, and he has to fight the primal urge to bite the fleshy curve beneath her thumb. _Mound of Venus_ , he thinks, and feels a shudder go through his own blood. “Have I never mentioned how long I’ve already waited for you, love?”

“No, you haven’t,” she murmurs, and while her smile isn’t bright enough to blind his weary eyes, it’s definitely a start. “You’ll have to share that story some time.”

“Oh, I will.” He grins, pressing a hard kiss to her knuckles before reluctantly relinquishing her hand. “Until that time, let’s just say that I’m a very patient man when it comes to you, darling.”

In it for the long haul, indeed.

 

~*~


End file.
